Read Online Falling for Colton (Falling #5) by Jasinda Wilder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jasinda Wilder
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industrial freezer. He’s got diamonds glinting in his ears and sparkling on his fingers.
“Eli. What’s good?”
“Found a fighter.” Eli doesn’t look at me, but he is obviously referring to me.
“He any good?”
“Took down Bruce over by my crib.”
A nod. “A’ight, then.” A glance at me. “Have a seat, man.” A thick finger flicks at a couch.
Eli nods at me, so I head toward the nearest couch, threading between the bodies. I feel stares. I seem to be the only other white person up here besides one of the girls. I watch Eli, who confers with the big dude for a minute. A crook of that forefinger, and one of the topless serving girls trots over, listens, and then nods and jiggles away.
A few seconds later, that same girl finds me on the couch, hands me a bottle of beer and a sandwich wrapped in white butcher paper. A wink and a shimmy of her tits at me, and then she’s gone, weaving through the crowd, ignoring hands that freely grope and grab. The sandwich is the best thing I’ve ever eaten, thin sliced roast beef and cheddar cheese and mayo, lettuce, tomatoes, onions. Fuck, it’s good. I have to force myself to go slow, and to sip at the beer.
I haven’t forgotten why I’m here.
When I’m done, I wad up the paper and toss it onto the nearby table, then take my beer and stroll over to the railing overlooking the fight. The crowd is huge, hundreds of people. Silver duct tape forms a large square on the concrete floor, and there’s another layer of tape around that, forming a perimeter to separate the fighters from the crowd.
One fight just ended, I think. There’s blood spattered on the floor. The people in the front row of the crowd have red spots and speckles on their shirts. Money is clutched in pumping fists. The crowd parts, and Ruiz pushes through, leading two other guys. A wiry Middle Eastern guy in his mid-twenties, and a much bigger and much younger black kid.
Ruiz shoves them to separate corners. Points at the Arabic dude and addresses the crowd. “Ibrahim. First fight.” Points at the black kid, who’s maybe a year older than me. “Julius. Nine fights, seven wins, two losses. Julius is favored. Place your bets.”
The fighters bounce and shake hands while the crowd shouts at Ruiz, who makes his way around the front row, collecting cash and handing out slips of paper with numbers written on them. Ones or twos, it looks like. Assuming “1” is Ibrahim, pretty much everyone expects Julius to win.
The fight is short and brutal. Ibrahim is slow and tentative and he only gets in two good hits, right at the start. Julius allowed them, I think, just to get a feel for his opponent’s punching power. After those two initial shots, Ibrahim gets destroyed. Just…wrecked. Julius is a whirlwind of fists, going in hard and fast, all jabs like jackhammers. Ibrahim goes to his knees, coughing, spitting blood, holds up a hand; Julius lays him out anyway with a smashing left hook. Ibrahim goes down in a messy spray of sweat, saliva, and blood, a tooth clattering to the concrete.
Nobody helps Ibrahim up. Nobody offers him anything to stop the bleeding. He has to climb to his feet on his own, spitting out red gobs. He manages to drag his carcass out of the ring, ignoring the jeers.
Eli appears beside me. “You’re up next, Colt.”
“What happens if I lose?” I ask.
“Don’t,” Eli says.
“But if I do?”
“Win, I’ll give you a hundred and a place to sleep, under a roof. Lose, you get nothing. You walk out of here on your own two feet, and that’s that. You’ll be lucky to walk out of here if you lose, though.” He glances at me. “Hundred is for the first fight. More you win, more you make per fight. Julius pulled down three grand for that fight.”
“Big jumps,” I point out.
“I don’t back Julius. He’s quick and brutal, but I think someone is gonna drop him for good sometime. He is too cocky.”
I don’t want to
“Eli. What’s good?”
“Found a fighter.” Eli doesn’t look at me, but he is obviously referring to me.
“He any good?”
“Took down Bruce over by my crib.”
A nod. “A’ight, then.” A glance at me. “Have a seat, man.” A thick finger flicks at a couch.
Eli nods at me, so I head toward the nearest couch, threading between the bodies. I feel stares. I seem to be the only other white person up here besides one of the girls. I watch Eli, who confers with the big dude for a minute. A crook of that forefinger, and one of the topless serving girls trots over, listens, and then nods and jiggles away.
A few seconds later, that same girl finds me on the couch, hands me a bottle of beer and a sandwich wrapped in white butcher paper. A wink and a shimmy of her tits at me, and then she’s gone, weaving through the crowd, ignoring hands that freely grope and grab. The sandwich is the best thing I’ve ever eaten, thin sliced roast beef and cheddar cheese and mayo, lettuce, tomatoes, onions. Fuck, it’s good. I have to force myself to go slow, and to sip at the beer.
I haven’t forgotten why I’m here.
When I’m done, I wad up the paper and toss it onto the nearby table, then take my beer and stroll over to the railing overlooking the fight. The crowd is huge, hundreds of people. Silver duct tape forms a large square on the concrete floor, and there’s another layer of tape around that, forming a perimeter to separate the fighters from the crowd.
One fight just ended, I think. There’s blood spattered on the floor. The people in the front row of the crowd have red spots and speckles on their shirts. Money is clutched in pumping fists. The crowd parts, and Ruiz pushes through, leading two other guys. A wiry Middle Eastern guy in his mid-twenties, and a much bigger and much younger black kid.
Ruiz shoves them to separate corners. Points at the Arabic dude and addresses the crowd. “Ibrahim. First fight.” Points at the black kid, who’s maybe a year older than me. “Julius. Nine fights, seven wins, two losses. Julius is favored. Place your bets.”
The fighters bounce and shake hands while the crowd shouts at Ruiz, who makes his way around the front row, collecting cash and handing out slips of paper with numbers written on them. Ones or twos, it looks like. Assuming “1” is Ibrahim, pretty much everyone expects Julius to win.
The fight is short and brutal. Ibrahim is slow and tentative and he only gets in two good hits, right at the start. Julius allowed them, I think, just to get a feel for his opponent’s punching power. After those two initial shots, Ibrahim gets destroyed. Just…wrecked. Julius is a whirlwind of fists, going in hard and fast, all jabs like jackhammers. Ibrahim goes to his knees, coughing, spitting blood, holds up a hand; Julius lays him out anyway with a smashing left hook. Ibrahim goes down in a messy spray of sweat, saliva, and blood, a tooth clattering to the concrete.
Nobody helps Ibrahim up. Nobody offers him anything to stop the bleeding. He has to climb to his feet on his own, spitting out red gobs. He manages to drag his carcass out of the ring, ignoring the jeers.
Eli appears beside me. “You’re up next, Colt.”
“What happens if I lose?” I ask.
“Don’t,” Eli says.
“But if I do?”
“Win, I’ll give you a hundred and a place to sleep, under a roof. Lose, you get nothing. You walk out of here on your own two feet, and that’s that. You’ll be lucky to walk out of here if you lose, though.” He glances at me. “Hundred is for the first fight. More you win, more you make per fight. Julius pulled down three grand for that fight.”
“Big jumps,” I point out.
“I don’t back Julius. He’s quick and brutal, but I think someone is gonna drop him for good sometime. He is too cocky.”
I don’t want to
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